


The Fixer

by squadrickchestopher



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Anal Sex, Attempted Kidnapping, Begging, Bottom Clint Barton, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Clint Barton Feels, Dom/sub Undertones, Edging, Falling In Love, Happy, M/M, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, One Shot, Overstimulation, POV Clint Barton, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Romance, SHIELD, SHIELD Agent Clint Barton, Sex, Top Bucky Barnes, safe words, winterhawk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:53:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23806438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squadrickchestopher/pseuds/squadrickchestopher
Summary: SHIELD Agent Clint Barton goes undercover at a coffee shop to protect a potential kidnapping victim. He's not expecting anything more rigorous than making some espressos and keeping an eye on the target. Then a handsome stranger walks through the doors, and all of his plans go out the window. There's somethingdifferentabout the man calling himself Dominic Vitali. Something else lurking underneath that chiseled jawline and raw sex appeal. And Clint's going to find out what.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 37
Kudos: 304





	The Fixer

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Play With Fire](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20084614) by [Kangofu_CB](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangofu_CB/pseuds/Kangofu_CB). 



> Inspired by Play With Fire by Kangofu_CB. I liked the idea of a no powers spy-verse. This is my take on it.

Clint generally tries not to complain about his SHIELD assignments, but this one is really pushing him. “Natasha,” he says, trying not to sound like a petulant child. “Why _me_?”

“Because I called you,” she says, like that’s supposed to be an answer.

“But it’s a bodyguard job,” Clint groans. “I _hate_ those.”

“Tough,” Nat says, her voice sharp. “You’ll do what you’re told, Barton, or I’ll pull your security clearance entirely and you can spend the rest of your days teaching trainees how to hold guns.”

“This is punishment for not going out again with your friend, isn’t it?” Clint carefully turns the omelet he’s working on and switches the phone to his other ear. “I told you, blond guys aren’t really my type.”

“Steve is perfectly nice. I don’t know what you have against him.”

“He’s too _predictable_ , Nat. It’s boring.”

“You’re a spy,” she says. “Don’t you think you have enough excitement to go around? Predictable might do you some good.”

Clint tosses the omelet onto a plate and snaps the stove off. “And yes, he was perfectly nice. He even paid for my dinner. I’m just not interested.”

“Fine. But you’re still doing this job. It’s not punishment. Fury told me to send the best, and since Wilson is out of town, you’re what I’ve got.”

“Ha ha, very funny.” Clint carries the plate to the couch. “I’m the best, and you know it. Give me the details.”

“Sending them now.” On the table, his SHIELD tablet buzzes with an incoming message. He holds it up to scan his eye-print, then quickly flips through the assignment details.

“You have _got_ to be kidding me,” Clint says. “This is punishment. Don’t lie to me.”

“It’s not,” Nat says, but there’s an amused twinge to her voice. “You’re reporting in tomorrow morning at nine sharp. Don’t be late.” She hangs up.

“I hate you,” Clint tells the empty air. He picks up the tablet and goes back to the beginning of the file.

It is, in fact, a bodyguard job. Not that Clint thinks bodyguard work is beneath him or anything, but he’s usually tapped for higher-level things these days. Assassinations and infiltration, those kinds of things. He hasn’t had to babysit anyone since his early days.

And this truly is babysitting. Taylor Niles is nineteen years old, brown-haired and wide-eyed, with the typical teenager/cusp-of-adulthood look about her. Pretty, but innocent. Divorced parents, living with her mother in Brooklyn. She works days at a hipster coffee shop, and spends the rest of her time volunteering at a dog shelter or going out with friends. She has plans to attend an out of state university in the fall. It’s the typical American dream, and he has no idea why that would make her the target of a potential kidnapping. She’s too innocent, and her mother is an emergency room nurse. Hardly a high profile job.

The answer comes a few pages later. “Ah,” he says, enlarging the picture of a man he vaguely remembers reading about in the news. “This makes more sense.”

Her father, John Niles is a high profile Texas attorney currently embroiled in a nasty lawsuit with an international oil company. He’s suing on behalf of a dozen Texas residents claiming the company is drilling on their land without permission. And he’s winning, from the looks of it. Closing arguments are this week.

Clint skims through the rest. It’s a pretty typical story, all things considered. Big oil doesn’t like losing, so they make threats. Kidnap the lawyer’s daughter, force him to drop the case. A bit of a stupid move, if you ask him, but it looks like the company is getting desperate.

But all things considered, this is really more of a job for a dedicated security team. He doesn’t understand why SHIELD needs to get involved. He texts Natasha.

_CB: why SHIELD vs private security?_

_NR: trading favors_

_CB: ??_

_NR: the mom refused regular security detail. Doesn’t believe she’s in danger. Niles not convinced._

_CB: still not answering my question_

_NR: Niles knows Fury. Asked for protection for his daughter. Agreed to trade some legal work for it._

_CB: so Fury and Niles trade favors, and I end up stuck babysitting in a coffee shop?_

_NR: stop complaining. Niles asked for the best. Fury offered you._

_CB: I’m flattered. Still annoyed._

_NR: consider it a vacation_

Clint sighs and starts in on his now-cold omelet.

_CB: I want a real vacation after this. Beaches. Palm trees. Chiseled men in tiny swimming suits._

_NR: keep the girl alive, I’ll see what I can do_

At nine the next morning, he shows up at the Morning Grind and introduces himself with an easy smile. “I’m Alec Leamas,” he says, offering a hand to the supervisor. “Your new barista.”

“Welcome to the team,” the supervisor says. “I’m Sean. It’s great to have you on board; we could definitely use the extra help around here. You ever work in a coffee shop before?”

“Nope,” Clint says truthfully. “I drink a lot of coffee though.”

Sean smiles and hands him a brown apron. “We all do. You’ll be training with Taylor, she’s been working here for years. She’s our best barista.”

Clint ties the apron on loosely, careful not to disturb the Beretta tucked against his left hip. He has a concealed carry permit as part of his cover, but he doesn’t want to cause undue alarm to anyone. “Sounds great.”

The shop itself is relatively small. It only has six tables, but there’s two couches in the far back corner, and a live music stage with a piano nearby. The other back corner houses the bathrooms, an office that Sean promptly disappears into, a narrow spiral staircase, and a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf with dozens of board games. It’s a typical hipster coffee place. Not the kind of spot he normally frequents, but as he looks around, Clint finds himself liking the cozy atmosphere. _Maybe I need to branch out._

Taylor comes bouncing up, all excited and smiles, and Clint finds himself liking her as well. There’s something very pure about the way she shows him around the shop, running him through basic tasks. “I’ll be helping you,” she says, “so don’t worry if it takes you awhile to figure out the coffee recipes. It took me almost a year to get them all down.”

“I’m not worried about it,” Clint says, flipping through the recipe binder she’s handed him.

“Good.” She leans against the wall and tosses her hair over her shoulder. “So are you from around here?”

“Born and raised,” he says. “You?”

“Texas, actually. If you listen, you can hear it in my voice.” She looks sad for a moment. “But my parents divorced, so I ended up moving here with my mom. My dad’s still there.”

“You ever get to see him?”

She shakes her head. “Not as much as I’d like. He’s real busy with a court case right now. I saw him at Christmas, that was the last time.”

“Court case? He’s a lawyer?”

“Yeah.” The door bell rings as the first customer walks in, and her face brightens immediately. “Okay, ready?”

“Sure,” Clint says, hopping to his feet. “Let’s do it.”

Making fancy coffee turns out to be surprisingly difficult. Taylor has to correct him multiple times on a single order as she flits around him, picking the correct syrups and combinations with ease. The one drink he actually gets right he also manages to knock over. “Sorry,” he says to Taylor, and she just waves a hand and gets him a mop.

He’s three hours into his eight-hour shift when Natasha herself shows up. She plops on the barstool and smiles charmingly at him. “Hello.”

“Order something easy,” he says under his breath, wiping the counter next to her, “or I’ll kill you in your sleep.”

She gets a black coffee, to go. She winks at him when he hands her the cup, then heads out the door.

“You know each other?” Taylor asks, reaching past him for the whipped cream.

“What makes you think that?”

“Just the way she looked at you.” Taylor shrugs. “Sorry. Not trying to pry.”

“No, we don’t know each other.” He clears up a couple empty mugs. _Perceptive._ The file hadn’t mentioned that, but then files aren’t always accurate either. God only knows the lies in his own.

As the time passes, he starts to get the hang of it. Taylor is a good teacher—patient, easy with his mistakes—and she cheers when he makes a whole order without any screw-ups at all. “See? You got this.”

Their lunch break is half an hour. She spends the time telling him stories about growing up in Texas. He trades his own stories—or Alec’s, rather—and finds himself liking her even more. His day-to-day is insanely complicated, usually involving insanely complicated people. It’s refreshing to talk with someone so straightforward and simple.

Towards the end of his shift, the door chimes open again. Clint doesn’t bother looking, preoccupied as he is with trying to prepare an order of “three venti two-pump vanilla skim lattes with non-fat milk and topped with cinnamon” for an overly entitled woman and her bird-like friends.

“Excuse me,” says a deep voice, and Clint glances up. “Where’s the bathroom?”

It’s a testament to all of his experience that Clint’s able to maintain his cool, because what he _wants_ to do is stare open-mouthed at this man for the rest of his life. He’s the literal definition of tall, dark, and handsome—gorgeous blue eyes, perfect lips, hint of a five o’clock shadow that toes the line between sexy and scruffy, all topped off with a black leather jacket, blue shirt and jeans that would _definitely_ look better on Clint’s bedroom floor.

He swallows roughly and tilts his head to the left. “Back there.”

“Thanks,” the man says, offering a smile. He strides to the back of the building and Clint tries to think about taxes or something so he doesn’t pop a boner right in the middle of the coffee shop.

He finishes the drinks and hands them off the to the women. Taylor nods approvingly. “You got it,” she says. “You’ll be even better tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” Clint says, somewhat distracted as the man returns and slides onto a bar stool. “Can I help you?”

“Just a regular coffee is fine,” he says. There’s a light hint of a British accent, just enough to flavor his words. It goes right to Clint’s dick, and he has to look away for a moment. “I know it’s a little late for caffeine, but I’ve had a long day.”

“Coffee’s a good cure for long days,” Clint says, fighting the absurd urge to bury his hands in that _fantastic_ hair and kiss him. “Work, or something else?”

“Work,” the man says. “I’m a very skilled man, and I’m being…underutilized.”

“I know that feeling,” Clint says, handing him a cup. “What’s your name?”

He takes a sip. “Dominic Vitali.” He meets Clint’s eyes, and his voice drops lower. “You can call me Dom.”

“Sure,” he says, when what he really wants to do is fall his knees and say _fuck, yes._

Dom smirks, like he knows exactly what Clint’s thinking, and raises his coffee in a mild salute. Clint gets his hormones back under some stranglehold of control and helps Taylor clear up some tables. The shop is winding down, for the most part. He listens with half an ear as she tells him about various cleaning procedures, and keeps an eye on Dom as he sips his coffee. There is _something_ about him—Clint’s not sure exactly what, but he hasn’t survived this long by not trusting his instincts. There are definitely secrets lurking underneath all that sex appeal.

Which honestly, just makes it better. Clint wasn’t lying to Natasha when he said predictable was boring. If he liked predictable, he would have gotten a job as an accountant or something. He’s in the spy business because he likes the thrill of it. He likes the danger.

And there is danger here for sure. Clint’s mouth is practically watering over it.

He hoists the last of the chairs onto the tables. The room is empty now, other than the three of them, and he’s extremely aware of how Dom’s eyes are following him around the room. He listens to Taylor’s cheerful instructions as they close up the coffee shop. The upstairs doubles as a nightclub after hours, so they have to pull all the tables aside and clear the floor as much as possible.

“I should go,” Dom says as Clint comes back around behind the bar. “Don’t want to keep you late.”

“It’s fine,” Clint says. “Overtime and all.”

“Hmm.” Dom runs a gloved finger around the rim of the empty cup and fixes those blue eyes on him. “Nothing better to do tonight, then?”

Clint raises an eyebrow. “Are you offering?”

Dom laughs. “Maybe.”

Half of him wants to agree to whatever Dom suggests. The other half wants to climb over the bar and rip all his clothes off.

But then responsibility rears its ugly head, and he looks over at Taylor. He’s supposed to keep an eye on her until later tonight, when the night team takes over. And as appealing as Dom is, he does still want to have a job tomorrow.

Dom follows his gaze and nods. “Okay,” he says, and he pushes the coffee mug across the bar. “I get it.” He pulls a couple bills out of his pocket and sets them on the counter. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“It’s not like that,” Clint says. “I have some things I need to take care of.”

“It’s alright,” Dom says, smiling gently, and he puts a business card on the counter. “Why don’t you give me a call when you’re free?”

Clint picks it up. It’s black with gold engraving, oddly heavy for a business card. _Dominic Vitali_ is at the top, followed by _Acquisitions and Mergers_ underneath. There’s a phone number and an email address. Clint flips the card over to see _Alpha Industries_ in lettered script on the other side. “Thanks,” he says, tucking it into his pocket.

“Anytime,” Dom says, winking at him. He leans a little closer. “Don’t worry. I know she’s not your type.”

Clin raises an eyebrow. “I have a type?’

Dom gives him an appraising look, full of pure heat that makes Clint’s heart go a little faster. “Yes,” he says, voice low again. “I rather think you do.”

He leaves then, which is good because Clint is about five seconds away from jumping on him like a wild animal. Which is a bad idea for a _number_ of reasons, primarily the fact that he’s supposed to be _working_ , not drooling over attractive coffee shop patrons.

The other being that Alpha Industries is the company John Niles is fighting. Meaning that Dominic Vitali’s visit here _could_ have been innocent…or he could have been scoping out Taylor as a target. It’s brazen, but he gets the idea that Dom isn’t really a subtle kind of guy.

Sean pokes his head out at the end of the shift to see how things went. Taylor gives him a glowing review, then chirps, “See you tomorrow!” and heads off for her shift at the dog shelter.

Clint makes his excuses to Sean and follows her. SHIELD has her phone bugged so he keeps back, occasionally glancing up to make sure she’s still in sight, and checks for people tailing _him_. Satisfied he's alone, he pulls out his own phone and texts Nat.

_CB: she’s going to the shelter_

_CB: how was the coffee_

_NR: could’ve been better_

_CB: I hate you_

_NR: you love me_

_CB: it’s all hate. can you look up a name for me._

_NR: sure_

_CB: Dominic Vitali. Works with AI. Acquisitions and mergers._

She doesn’t answer for a while. Clint watches Taylor go into the shelter. He doesn’t want to follow her in, so he gets a seat at the cafe across the street and orders a sandwich from the perky waitress.

Nat calls ten minutes later. “Are you _sure_ that was the name?”

“I’ve got it on a business card,” Clint says, pulling it out of his jeans. “A fancy one too.” He studies it from under his sunglasses. “Might actually have real gold in it.”

“Dominic Vitali is a fixer,” she says. “He works for multiple companies, not just Alpha. The A&M thing is a cover for him.”

“So what does he do?”

“He fixes. When things go bad for whatever reason, he’s the guy to call. He bribes people, directs media, spins stories. He’s worked with everyone from Fortune 500 companies to politicians. There’s a long string of questionable incidents following him, but SHIELD’s never been able to tie any back to him with anything more than circumstantial evidence. He’s _very_ good at moving in the shadows, and even better at getting others to do his dirty work for him.”

Clint laughs. “Why, Miss Romanoff, it almost sounds like you admire him.”

“He’s smart,” Nat says. “You know how much I like smart.”

“So you’re saying that probably _wasn’t_ a chance encounter with a hot guy looking for a cup of coffee.”

“Probably not.”

“Hmm.” Clint takes a bite of his sandwich, then asks, “Is he British?”

“I don’t think so. But we don’t know much about him. He came on our radar about twelve years ago, and we don’t have any records of him before then. Not for lack of trying. Whoever he is, he’s got his past locked up tight.” She hesitates, then says, “You need to be careful around him.”

“I’m always careful.”

“You are _not_.”

“Well, I will be this time.” He flips the card over in his hand. “Anything else I should know?”

“Don’t sleep with him, no matter how how hot you think he is.”

“Oof. You think so little of me, don’t you? Like I’d just give it up for any attractive guy on the street.” He probably would, but that’s beside the point.

Nat snorts. “I mean it, Clint. Don’t sleep with him.” Her voice gets concerned. “He’s got a nasty history, and we don’t know all of it.”

“I’ll be fine, Nat,” he says. “Don’t worry about me.”

Clint studies the embossed engraving on the back, then sighs and tucks it into his pocket again. He’s not going to call. No matter how hot Dom is, no matter how much Clint wants to fuck him against the nearest surface. He trusts Nat’s word on his history, and realizes it’s probably not someone he wants to play chicken with. Not to mention it would look _extremely_ bad if word got out that Clint lost the target because he was fucking the guy in charge of taking her.

The sun is dipping down below the buildings by the time Taylor comes out. She’s covered in dog fur and walking with another girl who looks about the same age. Clint drops some bills on the table and gets up to follow. He tails her all the way to the bus stop, where another agent—Kennedy, one of his favorites—sits next to her on the bench and gives Clint a short nod.

 _Tradeoff complete,_ he texts Nat, and decides that he might as well head on home too. He could go to a bar now that he’s off the clock, but the idea isn’t appealing. The one guy he really wants to take home is off-limits, and everyone else just seems to pale in comparison to that fantastic jawline.

He catches a subway back to his place. His apartment is just a little studio, but it’s got a nice view of downtown and the kitchen is a decent size. Plenty comfortable for just him. He kicks off his shoes by the bed and heads straight for the shower, intending to get the lingering scent of coffee out of his hair. Caffeine is practically his love language, but that doesn’t mean he wants to smell like it forever.

It happens when he steps out of the shower. A small prickle on the back of his neck. He doesn’t know if his ears registered something his brain didn’t, or if he’s just overly paranoid, but he suddenly has the feeling that he’s not alone anymore. Clint wraps the towel around his waist and reaches under the bathroom sink, feeling for the gun he has there. Then he darts through the door and turns to the living room, gun up and eyes searching.

The man relaxing on his couch raises both gloved hands in mock surrender. “Apologies,” Dom says. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Clint’s somehow not surprised that it’s him, but he keeps the gun aimed. “So you broke into my apartment?”

A slight shrug. “You weren’t planning to call me. I figured I’d take matters into my own hands.”

“Uh huh.” Clint eyes him. “And how do you know that? How did you even find me?” He knows he wasn’t followed. He takes random paths home every day, and distracted as he may have been, he sure as hell wasn’t too distracted to miss a tail.

Dom stands up slowly. “I’m unarmed,” he says. “I just want to talk.”

“Answer my questions, then.”

Instead, Dom stands up. “I’m not armed,” he says again. He’s wearing a dark suit now, and it looks fine as hell on him. He shrugs the jacket off, then untucks the white shirt and tugs it up out of the way, spinning slowly. “See? No gun.”

“Fine,” Clint says, not lowering his. He tries to focus on the conversation and not on how much he wants to get his tongue on those _spectacular_ abs. “No gun. I still want to know how you found me.”

“Clint,” Dom says with a hint of laughter in his voice. “How many years have you been with SHIELD? You should know better than to take things from strangers.”

The casual dropping of both his actual name and SHIELD makes his blood go cold, but he keeps his expression the same. “The business card?”

“Don’t worry. The tracking mechanism is a one time-use only.” Dom sits back down on the couch. “Put the gun down, Clint. If I’d wanted you dead, you’d be dead.”

It’s both terrifying and reassuring. Dom has apparently managed to find out who he is and where he lives within the span of a day, and bypass Clint’s security system to break in. He definitely could have killed Clint in the shower without a second thought.

“Alright,” Clint says, and he sets the gun on the counter. Still within reach, but not an imminent threat. Dom is staring at him, lips curved in amusement, and Clint suddenly remembers that he’s wearing nothing but a towel and some water droplets. His face flushes and he pulls it tighter against his skin. “You wanted to talk?” he asks, voice slightly higher than he would like. “Talk.”

Dom smirks. “You contacted your people at SHIELD, I presume. So you know who I am. And you know the girl is in danger.”

“From you,” Clint says. “And your company.”

“Mostly the company,” Dom says. “There are some people who _very_ badly want the charges dropped before they have to pay out an obscene amount of money. So they asked me to fix the situation. ”

“You were scoping her out today,” Clint says. “To kidnap her.”

Dom shakes his head. “I was scoping _you_ out, Clint. I knew SHIELD had assigned a security team. I wanted to see who it was.” He smiles. “You’re terrible at making coffee, by the way. You should have practiced.”

“It was a last-minute assignment,” Clint says. “In my defense, all I have to do here is add water.”

“Either way, I figured it had to be you. Then you tailed her from the shop, and I knew for sure.”

 _Sloppy,_ Clint chides himself. He’d checked for people following him, of course, but apparently not well enough. He drums his fingers on the counter. “I don’t get why you’re telling me all this.”

Dom shrugs. “I’m willing to do a lot of bad things,” he says. “And most of the time I sleep well at night. But I draw the line at kidnapping teenagers. What the company is doing in Texas is wrong, and I’m not going to get in the way of justice. Not this time. Particularly not at the expense of some poor kid who volunteers at dog shelters and doesn’t talk to her dad all that much.”

“So don’t kidnap her,” Clint says. “Problem solved.”

“I have to _try_ ,” Dom says, sounding offended. “I have a reputation to maintain. And that’s why I’m here. I want to make a deal with you.”

Clint crosses his arms. “I’m listening.”

“Good.” The word is low, accompanied by a smirk that makes his heart rate jack up. “Tuesday is trash pick up for the shop. She’s usually the one to take the trash out at the beginning of her shift. My team is planning on grabbing her when she comes outside. I left the exact method up to them. There’ll be four men total.”

Clint commits all this to memory. He’ll call Natasha in the morning. “So if I have this straight,” he says, “you’re telling me this because you want _me_ to stop the kidnapping. Because if _you_ stop it or refuse to do it, you look like you’re not able to do your job. Do I have that right?”

“Pretty much,” Dom says dryly. “You’d be doing me a favor, really. Alpha Industries is a terrible company. If they fuck this up, then I can back away gracefully, and decline further jobs with them.” He meets Clint’s eyes and waits for an answer.

It doesn’t take Clint long to give him one. Breaking and entering aside, Dom—whoever the hell he really is—seems pretty sincere about this. He didn’t _have_ to tell Clint anything. He could have killed him twice over by now, and left Taylor unprotected. So Clint temporarily shelves his trust issues and says, “Okay. Thanks for the tip.”

“Well,” Dom says, eyes drifting down to the towel. “To be completely honest, I was hoping to give you a little more than that.”

His voice is low again, eyes dark with lust, and Clint swallows nervously. “I, uh…”

“You can say no,” Dom says, stepping closer. It’s a predatory walk, and Clint’s dick goes from half-awake to fully interested in about five seconds flat. “In fact, it might be in your best interests to do so.”

“Nat did tell me not to sleep with you,” Clint agrees faintly as Dom gets close enough to touch. Questing fingers trail over his shoulder, collecting water droplets. Dom licks them off his fingers, keeping eye contact, and Clint feels his knees get weak.

“Oh Clint,” Dom says, his voice full of dark promises, “I have absolutely no intentions of _sleeping_ at all.”

The murmured words burn up any lingering resistance he might have had, and he shivers hard with anticipation. “ _Fuck_.” He leans forward, trapping Dom’s mouth in a rough kiss.

Dom kisses him back, slow and filthy, and his gloved hands settle around Clint’s waist just over the towel. “That’s the plan,” he murmurs, pulling back slightly. “Any objections?”

“ _No_ ,” Clint says emphatically, trying to keep hold of himself as Dom’s fingers rub slowly at his hipbones. “You’ve been on my goddamn mind all day, I want—“ His fingers scramble at Dom’s belt.

Dom traps his hands in an iron grip and moves them to the counter. “No,” he says, so firmly that Clint sucks in a breath and holds very still. Dom is still pressed against him, his warm body slotting against Clint’s in all the right ways, and the commanding tone of his voice makes Clint want to _melt_. “I’m calling the shots tonight.”

“Okay,” Clint says, breathless. He tilts his head up, chases Dom’s mouth, but the other man just chuckles and moves aside. His fingers slowly undo the towel and pull it aside like a curtain, carelessly discarding it onto the floor.

Dom steps back and surveys him up and down, a calculating look in his eyes. “Like what you see?” Clint asks, grinning. He keeps his hands on the counter where Dom put them.

“Very much so,” Dom says. He moves close again and kisses him, all tongue and heat and occasional biting, all of which serves to make Clint even harder. “Get on the bed,” he murmurs into Clint’s mouth. “Now.”

“Okay,” he says again, dragging air into his lungs. He steals one more kiss and then gracefully sidesteps Dom, sauntering over to the bed with a cool, smooth gait. It’s slow and sexy and great right up until he trips over his own fucking shoes and falls face-first onto the sheets, getting a mouthful of pillow for his efforts.

Dom bursts out laughing. “Smooth,” he says, and Clint suddenly realizes that the British accent is gone. Or not gone, really. Replaced. Replaced with a homegrown Brooklyn accent that sounds amused and aroused and fond all at the same time. It’s much more authentic to his voice, and Clint loves it.

Clint feels a flush spread up his skin, but he just rolls over onto his back and offers a cocky grin. “Hey baby,” he says. “Gonna admire the view, or you gonna come get some of this?”

“You’re a fucking brat,” Dom tells him, but there’s a smile on his face. “Stay there. Put your hands over your head. Don’t move.”

Clint raises his arms over his head, crossing them at the wrists, and watches hungrily as Dom loosens his tie while striding over to the bed. He taps the shoes out of the way and pulls the tie over his head, tossing it onto Clint’s bare chest. Then he slowly peels off his gloves and undoes his shirt buttons, grinning at the little moan that Clint lets out when it’s sliding off his shoulders. “Christ,” Clint says. “You’re fucking perfect.”

And he is, too. Broad shoulders, defined muscles, a dusting of hair leading down to below his belt. Clint’s mouth waters as he takes it all in. Most interesting is the left arm—it’s some kind of prosthetic, it has to be. Black with gold accents, like the business card. It doesn’t hang awkwardly like most prosthetics Clint knows. Instead it moves fluidly with Dom’s body as he sheds the shirt, grinning at Clint’s expression. “Shark attack,” he says, his voice clearly joking. “I was surfing.”

“Uh-huh,” Clint says. He’s very interested, but that’s a story for another time. Right now he wants Dom to keep undressing. He’s dying to see what’s under that dark material. “Pants. Pants off, right now.”

“Oh no,” Dom says. “I told you I was calling the shots, and I meant it.” He gets on the bed, straddling Clint’s waist, and picks up the tie. “You okay with being tied up?”

Normally Clint’s not into restraints. But this is so far beyond the realm of normal, and the thought of being at Dom’s mercy is intensely exciting, so he just nods, offering his wrists to be tied. Dom gently wraps them up, his touch easy and sure, then secures them to the slatted headboard. Clint tugs a little, feeling reassured that he could still get out of them if he really wanted to.

“You have a safe word?”

“Red for stop. Yellow for slow down.” He shrugs. “I’m traditional.”

“I’m not complaining.” Dom presses his arms down into the mattress, an unspoken warning in his touch. The prosthetic arm is warm and smooth against Clint’s skin. “No slipping out of those.”

“Or what?” Clint asks. He grins. “Gonna spank me?”

Dom’s gaze is flushed with desire. “Don’t tempt me,” he says, his voice practically _dripping_ sex, and Clint makes a strangled sound and pushes his hips up. His cock rubs against the fabric of Dom’s slacks, he’s so hard and it feels so _good_ —

“Impatient,” Dom chides, moving off him. “Tell me what you want, sweetheart.”

The endearment doesn’t phase Clint. He kinda likes it. “ _Everything_ ,” he says, lost in the moment. “Fuck, Dom. I want you in me, I want your mouth, I want your cock…” He’s cut off as Dom kisses him again, filthy and wet.

“Alright,” Dom says, moving to mouth at Clint’s jaw. “Guess that gives me something to start with.”

He presses a trail of kisses down Clint’s chest, pausing to suck on a nipple. That’s also not normally something Clint’s into, but the first touch of heat around it makes him arch his back and moan. Dom grins around it and sucks a little harder before popping off and giving the other the same treatment. Then he keeps going down, getting lower, until he’s settled between Clint’s spread legs with a hungry expression.

“Been wanting to do this since I saw you this morning,” he says, his voice low and intense. “You looked so fucking good in those jeans.”

“So did you,” Clint gasps, pushing his hips up. “But I liked the suit too.”

“Meetings,” Dom says by way of explanation, and he drags his tongue up Clint’s cock. Clint lets out a whimper and pushes his hips up again.

“Again,” he says, his voice almost a whine. “ _Again_ , fuck…”

Dom lets out a throaty chuckle. “You’re not in charge here,” he says, gently rubbing at Clint’s hole with a single finger. The feeling makes Clint squirm with pleasure. “I’ll do what I fucking want with you, and you’re gonna lie still and take it for me. Sound like a plan?”

His breath hitches at the commanding voice, and Clint nods even as his hips twitch up again. “It’s a great plan,” he says, forcing himself to be still. “Great, it’s great, there’s lube and condoms in the drawer…”

“Mmm.” Dom gets up to get them, then moves back between Clint’s legs again. He gives it another long, slow lick, and Clint whimpers again at the sensation. His cock is achingly hard, practically dripping, and he wants Dom’s mouth on it _now_. “Please,” he says, his hips twitching. “Please, Dom, please do _something_.”

“I _am_ doing something,” Dom says, gently laving his tongue along the underside. “You’re just impatient.”

“Fuck,” Clint says, throwing his head back. His hands flex in the tie. He wants to grab Dom’s hair, wants to push his cock into that perfect fucking mouth, but he is not supposed to move, so he doesn’t. He stays still and whimpers and moans at every single touch of Dom’s tongue against him, barely even noticing when a lubed-up finger slides into him. Then it nudges against his prostate and he _definitely_ notices, lets out a high pitched keening sound that makes Dom whisper _fuck, Clint_ and do it again.

One finger becomes two, then three, and all the while Dom is sucking at his cock, taking him deep and coming back up with some kind of magic that makes Clint see _stars_ —

Dom pops off with an obscene sound and leans up for a kiss. His lips are swollen and Clint bites at him, catching the lower one between his teeth. Dom lets out a groan and reaches down for Clint’s cock. “You want me to fuck you?” he asks, looking as breathless as Clint feels. His hand reaches down and Clint groans at the feel of heated skin against his cock.

“God yes,” he growls, arms twisting again in their restraints. “Fuck me Dom, _please_ —“

Dom sheds his pants and slides a condom on easily, following it up with lube. He goes back down, pausing to suck at Clint’s cock again, the spot just under the head that has Clint cursing like a sailor as his hips buck. “Easy,” Dom breathes, and he lines himself up. “You good?”

“ _Fuck_ me,” Clint says again, and nearly bites through his lip as Dom obliges and sinks into him. The sensation of it fills him up, stealing his breath and his thoughts, and possibly his life. Clint doesn’t even know anymore. It’s perfect. Everything is _perfect_. He drags in a ragged breath and tries to hold still as Dom bottoms out in him with a low moan.

“God,” Dom mutters, looking down at him. “So fucking tight for me, look how good you take my cock.” He reaches out and grabs Clint’s hair, pulling on the just right side of painful. “I said _look_ at it, Clint. Watch me fuck you.”

“Uh-huh,” Clint says, because that’s all he has breath for. His eyes are glued to Dom’s cock, and where it’s disappearing into his own body. He couldn’t look away if he tried.

Dom starts to move. He pulls out, then slides back in, the movement languorous. Clint pushes his own hips up to meet him, but Dom shoves him back down. “Hold still,” he says, his voice slightly hoarse, but still commanding. “Hold still, or we’re gonna do this all fucking night.”

“Promise?” Clint shoots back, and Dom snorts out a laugh. He reaches down and grabs Clint’s leg, pressing it to his chest and changing the angle slightly, and—

The sound that Clint makes is probably the most embarrassing thing that’s ever escaped him, but Dom loves it. His eyes get dark with lust and he thrusts forward again. Clint _whines_ , arms yanking hard at the tie. “Want to touch…” he gasps, writhing underneath him.

“No,” Dom growls, leaning forward. His lips brush Clint’s ear. “You’re gonna learn patience, sweetheart.” He thrusts again, grinding into Clint’s prostate at an angle that makes him lose his goddamn mind, hardly able to speak for the shocks of pleasure rocketing up his spine.

It goes on for days. Weeks. Possibly years. An entire _eternity_ passes while Dom fucks him, sometimes fast, sometimes slow, always matching his strokes with a hand on Clint’s cock, moving in rhythm to their hips. He knows exactly how hard to push it, how much Clint can take before he’s close to coming. He forces Clint to walk that tightrope edge of orgasm until he’s _sobbing_ , utterly wrecked with how _good_ it is and how badly he wants it.

“I’m gonna come,” Dom says roughly, fucking a little harder. “You hold it in until I tell you, understand me?”

“Yes sir,” Clint grinds out, back arched and hands flexing, and the sound of those words make Dom lose it. He thrusts forward roughly, the pain of it turning immediately to pleasure in Clint’s overworked body, and snaps his hips once, twice, three times. Then he’s tipping over the edge with an obscene moan, his hand briefly stilling on Clint as his own orgasm rushes through him. His eyes are closed and his whole body is flushed, and Clint thinks that if he died right now, he’d be okay with this being the last thing he saw.

Dom rides out his orgasm with a few lazy grinding motions, then opens his eyes. “Fuck,” he breathes, and Clint grinds back on him, desperate for any sensation he can get.

“Please,” he breathes. “Please, Dom.”

Dom smiles, loose and languid. “You wanna come?” he asks, moving his hand slowly. “You wanna come for me?”

“Yes,” Clint says, feeling the tears as he gets close to that edge again. “Fuck, please, please let me come, Dom, I wanna come for you, _please_ …” He’s never begged this much for anything in his entire _life_ , but he’s pretty sure he’s never wanted something so badly either.

Dom keeps stroking him. He locks those perfect blue eyes onto Clint’s and keeps going, up and down, twisting his thumb over the head in a way that might actually kill him—

“Come,” he commands, and Clint yells as his orgasm tears through him like a wildfire. His toes curl and his back arches and he spurts all over his chest, his vision whiting out as he comes and comes and _keeps_ coming—

The world fades into fuzziness, black and white static settling over his senses. Clint vaguely feels himself collapse onto the bed, somewhat recognizes there’s a babbling stream of words from his mouth, but he can’t stop any of it. He’s boneless. He’s melted. He’s never going to get up again. He’s going to lay here in this bed forever, lost in a wave of sheer, unadulterated bliss.

The feeling slowly fades, the static reforming into his bedroom, and the sight of Dom gently cleaning him up. “Hey,” he croaks, and coughs because his throat is dry as hell.

“Hey,” Dom says softly. He puts a hand on Clint’s cheek. “You okay?”

“‘m _great_ ,” Clint mumbles. “That was incredible, Jesus fucking Christ…” His eyes slip closed again.

Dom pats his face. “Wake up. Come on. I need you to drink this.” He sets aside the washcloth and helps Clint sit up, holding a glass of water to his lips. After a couple sips, Clint takes it from him and finishes the rest himself. The tie is still around his left wrist, and the silk is soft against his oversensitive skin.

He hands the glass back to Dom and coughs again, feeling slightly self-conscious. “Uh. That…well.”

“I know,” Dom says quietly, a smile tugging at his lips. He pulls the tie off with gentle fingers and tosses it to the floor. “You feel good?”

“I feel fucking amazing,” Clint says. “Like the worried-I’m-never-gonna-get-it-up-ever-again kind of amazing. I think I died for a little bit. I’m at least ninety percent sure I saw heaven. Maybe ninety-five.” He’s babbling still, but it seems to amuse Dom, so he lets his mouth go. “Seriously. I can’t feel my fucking legs, if I couldn’t see them I’d think they were just gone. Probably wouldn’t even care.”

“That’s how you know you did it right,” Dom murmurs, still smiling. He gets up and takes the cloths back over to the bathroom, then discards the condom wrappers in the trash and puts the lube away.

He sits back on the bed and looks at Clint, an unreadable expression on his face. “What?” Clint asks, but he just shakes his head.

“It’s nothing.”

Clint blinks slowly. Hie eyelids get stuck together on the way down, and it takes a lot of effort to reopen them again.

“You should sleep, Clint,” Dom says, noticing his struggle. “You still have to work tomorrow.”

That brings up another question. “Hey, you never said. How do you know my name?”

Dom grins. “Guy’s gotta have _some_ secrets,” he says, gently brushing his hand over Clint’s face. “Don’t worry. I have no evil plans for you, or SHIELD. I like you guys. I think you do good stuff.”

“Thanks,” Clint says. “We try.” He forces his eyes back open again. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Your name’s not really Dominic Vitali, is it?”

“No,” Dom admits with a wicked grin that would turn him on if he had the energy. “But it’s served me well for this long.”

“I didn’t think so,” Clint says. “So what is it?”

Dom hesitates. Clint sees the trepidation in his eyes.

“Hey,” he says, putting his hand on Dom’s arm. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. Won’t hurt my feelings.”

“No, I want to,” Dom says, his voice soft. “It’s James, officially. But my friends call me Bucky.”

“Bucky,” Clint says, and he immediately likes it. Dominic is sexy, and James is formal, but there’s just something inherently appealing about Bucky.

Dom—Bucky—shudders a little at the sound. “Been a long time since someone called me that,” he says, and there’s a sadness in his eyes that Clint wants to make disappear. He starts getting up, stretching, reaching for his clothes.

“You don’t have to go,” Clint says sleepily. He reaches out and catches Bucky’s arm. “I mean it. You can stay.”

Bucky laughs a little. “You’re not supposed to sleep with me,” he says. “Remember?”

“Don’t care,” Clint mumbles. “You’re warm.” He tugs, and Bucky reluctantly lets himself be tugged back into the bed. “C’mere.”

“Didn’t take you for the cuddling type,” Bucky says quietly, letting Clint curl up around him.

“I’m not,” Clint says, exhaustion stealing the life from his words. “But your eyes are sad.”

Bucky doesn’t have anything to say to that, and after awhile, Clint drifts off to the sound of his gentle breathing.

He wakes up at six AM to an empty bed and an alarm clock blaring. Clint fumbles around a bit until he can shut it off, then puts his hand on the cold sheets where Bucky was laying. He’d slept deep, he hadn’t even felt Bucky moving around. Not a great moment as a spy, but Clint can’t really bring himself to care.

He forces himself out of bed and and finds a note on the kitchen counter. _Sorry,_ is all it says.

Clint gets in the shower, feeling disappointment swell in him. Although really, he’s not sure what he expected. Did he really think Bucky was going to make him breakfast or do some other sweet morning-after thing? Neither of them are that kind of guy. It was already unusual that Clint asked him to stay.

Still, it aches at him in a strange way. _Your eyes are sad,_ is what he’d said. But what he meant was, _I know what it’s like to feel alone, and you don’t have to. Not tonight._

Clint gets dressed and calls Nat while he’s brushing his teeth. “I’ve got some intel for you,” he says.

“You slept with Dominic,” she says.

“Well…yeah,” he admits. “But that’s not it.”

“Clint,” she says, exasperated. “Didn’t we have a discussion about that?”

“Nat, the guy showed up in my apartment while I was in the shower. He came alone, unarmed, and just wanted to talk.”

There’s quiet on her end, and then she says, “He got in your _apartment_?”

Clint shares the story and the information, leaving out what happened afterwards. Nat listens carefully. “I’ll make some calls,” she says. “You think his intel is good?”

“I do,” Clint says. “He seemed pretty sincere.”

“Did you make that decision before or after he fucked you?”

“Nat,” Clint says, a little taken aback. _Yeah_ , he’d lost his head for a bit, and _yeah_ , he was ridiculously horny last night, but he knows how to do his fucking job. He’s not a rookie.

She takes a breath. “I’m sorry. That was mean.”

“His intel is good,” Clint says, his voice cold. “I trust him on this. And even if it’s not, we don’t have anything to lose. Either Taylor takes out the trash and is fine, or she takes out the trash and there’s an attempt to take her. Either way we’re not dropping surveillance until the trial is done, so I don’t see why it really matters.”

Nat sighs. “I’m sorry,” she says again. “I’ll get people in place.”

Clint hangs up without saying goodbye. Petty, but he’s a little pissed off. He finishes his teeth and gets dressed quickly, trying not to give himself time to think. He’s not sure if he wants to cry or punch something. Or both.

The intel turns out to be good. Clint follows Taylor when she takes the trash out, and is less than surprised when the snatch team turns up. He pushes Taylor back inside and takes the first one out with ease. He’s working on the second when SHIELD descends, dispatching the group with minimal effort and loading them up in the van. “Good work,” Kennedy says, tugging down her face mask to reveal a pair of rosy cheeks and a smile. “We’ll keep on her, but I think this’ll convince her mother that the threat is real.”

“Sounds great,” Clint says.

He goes back inside and consoles an understandably distraught Taylor. He tells her the truth about what happened, and offers to take her home. After she calms down, she shakes her head and tells him that she feels safer here, with him. Then she takes a deep breath and resumes making coffee for customers, albeit a bit more nervously than before.

Clint works alongside her, hoping against hope that he’ll see Bucky come in, and they can talk for a moment. He gets a thrill for a moment when he sees a dark-haired man outside, but then a crowd comes by and Clint loses him.

He spends the whole day looking out of the corner of his eye, but Bucky never shows. The business card was gone from his jeans when he woke up, so he doesn’t even have a way of contacting the guy. He just has to wait until Bucky comes to him.

If Bucky comes to him.

The mother hires a private security detail at the recommendation of SHIELD, but Clint decides to finish his week at the coffee shop anyway. Partly because he’s hoping to see Bucky, but also because he really does like Taylor, and she feels safer with him around. She’s smart, and resilient, and he passes her a recruitment card on his last day. “You’re tough,” he tells her when she throws her arms around him. “You’d make a good SHIELD agent. Keep us in mind. Study some languages in college.”

Nat teases him about getting soft in his old age, but he reminds her that one time she’d attended a charity ball as a past target’s date, so really she has no leg to stand on here.

She asks him once about Dominic, but he just shakes his head. He probably should share Dom’s real name, but he doesn’t want to. It likely won’t tell them anything else, and he feels like it would be a breach of trust on his part. Bucky didn’t have to tell him. Clint isn’t going to share without permission.

Two weeks later, he is on an assignment in the Bahamas. Nat had promised that as soon as he finished the job, he could stay there for an extra week. “Beaches,” she said. “Palm trees. Chiseled men in swimming suits. Get us our info and it’s all yours.”

He got the info within the first three days, and sent it off on a helicopter as per his instructions. Now he’s relaxing on the beach, looking at everything he wanted to see so badly a few weeks ago, and realizing that it’s not what he wants to see at all.

 _It was only one fuck_ , he tells himself, firming his grip around his whiskey. _Stop dwelling on it._

But he can’t shake the image of Bucky’s sad eyes, or the way he’d made Clint come apart underneath him, and how gentle he’d been after. He wants that again, he realizes. He’d felt safe with Bucky, safe enough to fall asleep in his presence.

Which is _absurd_. Natasha had explicitly told him not to trust Bucky, not to sleep with him, and Clint had done the exact opposite. And now he wants to do it again. It’s absolutely insane. He’s not that kind of guy. He’s built his whole sex life on one night stands. Being a spy doesn’t allow for romance, especially not the sappy kind of shit that Clint can’t get out of his head.

No. It happened, it was mind-blowing, and he’s going to move on now. The moment is gone. He’s gonna find someone else to fuck, and get this guy out of his head for good. Clint turns from the bar and scans the beach, picking out a couple potential candidates.

“Tell me,” says a familiar voice, and his heart does a triple flip in his chest. “What’s a nice guy like you doing in a place like this?”

Clint whips back around and sees Bucky sliding onto a barstool across the corner from him, wearing a swim suit, a ridiculous straw hat and a brilliant smile. Clint blinks a couple times, trying to make sure that he’s _actually_ there, and is not just a product of his hormone-riddled brain.

“I’m know,” Bucky says. “I’m an absolute vision.”

“ _Bucky_ ,” Clint says, unable to stop his own grin from spreading across his face. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I,” Bucky says grandly, “am arranging for a certain politician to spend some time away from home so a nasty PR storm can die down.” He winks. His prosthetic arm glints darkly in the sunlight. “What are you doing?”

“Vacationing,” Clint says. “Beaches. Palm trees. Chiseled men in swimming suits.”

“Sounds nice,” Bucky drawls, leaning forward. “See anything you like?”

His voice is friendly, but his eyes are pure heat, with that little hint of amusement that Clint has jerked off to more than once in the past couple weeks. “Sure do,” Clint says, taking a sip of his whiskey. “You see the guy over there in the green suit? He’s definitely my type.”

Bucky laughs. “So easily _distracted_ ,” he says, and he gets off the barstool. Two steps brings him right into Clint’s space, pressing them together in a way that goes straight to Clint’s head. “Wonder what I can do to solve that?”

“I can think of a few things,” Clint says, already breathless. His hands settle on Bucky’s waist. “But most of them involve my bed, and you, and being more naked than we can get here.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Bucky says, and he kisses Clint. It’s not a hungry kiss, not predatory at all. It’s soft, and sweet, and makes him want to melt right into the beach and become one with the sand.

The moment is ruined when the bartender tells them to get a room. Bucky breaks off with another laugh and tugs Clint to his feet. “C’mon,” he says. “Before we cause a scene.”

“Wait,” Clint says. He searches for the words that he wants, but they don’t come, or they’re the wrong ones. Bucky watches him stumble, amused. Finally he settles on, “I’m glad you’re here” and hopes that it conveys everything else he’s feeling too.

Bucky smiles again. “So am I,” he says, and his fingers wind around Clint’s. “I’m very, _very_ happy.”

He pulls Clint into his body again. “Now let me show you how happy,” he says, his voice suddenly dark, lips pressed to Clint’s ear.

Clint grins against his cheek. “Sounds like a plan,” he says. “Sounds like a perfect goddamn plan.”

The sun is warm on their shoulders, and the sand fine beneath their feet. Clint walks next to Bucky, listening to him laugh and talk as they pick their way across the beach. Bucky’s hand is warm in his, solid and perfect.

He doesn’t let go.

**Author's Note:**

> Alec Lemas is the main character of The Spy Who Came In From The Cold, credit to John le Carre.
> 
> Dominic Vitali is a nod to one of the Bond girls (Domino Vitali in Thunderball). Figured it was a fun fit to the spy-verse theme, plus the play on words was too good to pass up.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr!](feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com)


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